True Colours
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Countess Lydia's reaction to baby Annie is not what Alexey is hoping for. Can his pious friend practice what she preaches?


True Colours 

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Anna Karenina

Copyright: Leo Tolstoy's estate/Joe Wright

"What in Heaven's name," demanded Lydia Ivanovna, tottering into her friend's study with one hand against the wall, her round brown eyes more prominent than ever, "Are that servant and that - _baby_ doing on your front steps?"

Alexey Karenin put down his papers, stood up and held out his hand to her, smiling at her obvious astonishment. Her hand trembled as he raised it to his lips.

"Good morning, Lydia," he said. "I see you've met Annie. Her nursemaid is taking her for a walk. Wait until they come back and I can introduce you."

"Goodness gracious! You don't mean to say … "

Lydia collapsed onto the chair opposite him, purple skirts billowing out around her. She would be so moved by his decision to adopt Anna and Vronsky's daughter. She would want to know everything, from the baby's health to the state of her wardrobe. Her advice would be a blessing, both now and later; he wanted Annie to have a woman in her life she could admire, and he could think of no one better than his longtime sister in Christ. Any moment now, Lydia's pallid face would begin to glow with kindness and respect. She would smile, clasp her hands, and the questions would begin. Any moment now …

"My dear friend," she faltered, gloved hands hovering in the air. "Are you … are you sure that was a wise decision?"

A slight chill came over him. That was not the question he had been hoping for.

"I don't see why not," he replied shortly.

"But … _their_ child … in _your_ house!"

Her emphases spoke volumes, as if in her mind, Alexey's house was a sacred shrine about to be profaned.

"She's barely more than a year old," he snapped. "What was I supposed to do? Let her starve? Send her to an orphanage?"

"Heavens, no!" Lydia let out a sob, wiped her face with a lace handkerchief, and gazed across the desk with wide, imploring eyes.

"Forgive me, Alexey, I did not mean … that is to say, of course you wish for the child to be looked after. A noble spirit such as yours could not do otherwise. But there are other ways – the Countess Vronskaya, I understand, would be only too happy – "

"Out of the question," he interrupted. "I will not have my wife's child raised among that set of people."

The thought of Annie growing up another Princess Betsy – or worse yet, another Anna, surrounded by the next generation of Vronskys – made him crack his knuckles with irritation.

"Oh, I see. Of course not. But your – that is to say, the Prince and Princess Oblonsky – "

"- have six children already and are up to their ears in debt."

"I see." Lydia drooped in her chair like a wilting violet.

"Frankly, Lydia, I hoped that _you_ of all people would understand. If my conscience – my spirit, whatever you call it – moves me to help this child, why should I not do it?"

"Oh, Alexey … "

She reached across the desk and touched his hand, in that way he used to find so soothing. Now, he noticed for the first time how bony her hand was, how she perspired even through the silk of her glove.

"You know, dear friend, that I have always admired you," she said. "Your faith, your devotion to duty, your Christian charity, are an example to us all. That is the very reason why you must not put your light under a bushel, so to speak – why you must allow the people of Saint Petersburg to continue seeing you as the great man you are. Don't you remember how you suffered when that child was born? The rumors, the innuendo, the shadow cast upon your honorable name? Are you really prepared to endure this a second time?"

Alexey remembered – the whispers silenced when he walked into the room, the sneering faces of his political rivals, the stony blankness on Seryozha's face and the loathing on Anna's.

_Crack, crack._ He flattened his left hand against his desk to silence it.

"And then, there is dear Seryozha to consider," Lydia continued, as if reading his thoughts. "When I last saw him at the funeral, the poor child was beside himself with grief. Have you thought of how this will affect him?"

Seryozha. The funeral.

A memory came to him, so clear and sharp, he did not understand how he could have forgotten: Seryozha in his new black suit, his eyes red from crying, his arms stiffly folded as he refused to shake hands with Lydia. _"Leave me alone,"_ he'd burst out _"You lied to me! You told me Mama was dead, and then she came for my birthday anyway. You're happy that she's dead now! Go away!"_

Alexey had snapped at his son then, apologized to Lydia on his behalf, and sent him to bed without supper later that night. The days leading up to Seryozha's return to boarding school had passed with barely a word between them. He was at school now, not coming home until the summer holidays, with no idea that his half-sister was in the house. Alexey had been counting on Lydia to help him break the news. Was it possible? Could he have been deceived by _both_ the women in his life?

He thought of how Lydia had persuaded him not to give Anna a divorce, despite Stiva's insistence that divorce was Anna's only chance to set her mind at rest. How bitterly he had blamed himself for that after Anna's suicide, quite forgetting whose advice he had been taking.

He thought of Lydia's poorly veiled contempt just now as she spoke of Annie as "_their_ child", not even mentioning Anna or Vronsky by name.

Annie. He had no words for what she meant to him. He felt as if he had been born right along with her that night, his soul washed nearly as clean as hers by the joy of forgiving. How could he have fallen so far since that night, fallen back into pride, vanity and spite? How could he not have noticed Lydia helping to drag him down?

He shook off her hand and rose to his feet.

"Lydia Ivanovna." The formality threw her backwards into her chair. "I must remind you that you are neither my housekeeper nor my wife." She flinched. "You neet not concern yourself for Seryozha. He will have four months at school to adapt. As for Annie herself, if you think you can convince me to value spiteful, mindless gossip above the well-being of my stepdaughter, you are sadly mistaken – or else, I was mistaken in you. Anna Arkadyevna may not have been faithful, but at least she was honest."

Lydia flushed. Her mouth set itself in a thin, straight line. Her voice shook as she answered him – not with tears, but with suppressed rage.

"May God forgive you, Alexey Alexandrovitch, for what you have just said."

"That won't be necessary," he retorted. "Good day, Countess. You may show yourself out."

She did so, majestically, only decades of ladylike behavior preventing her from slamming the door.

Alexey leaned his elbows on his desk and watched, with curious detachment, as a tear landed on an empty sheet of paper. She was a liar and a hypocrite, but she was also his only friend, and in any case, he had no right to cast the first stone. Had he not lied to everyone – to Anna, to Seryozha, to Stiva and Dolly, and most of all to himself?

He had told himself his conscience was clear, that he was at peace, that he had never for a moment stopped being the man he was on the night of Annie's birth.

_May God forgive me._

He dipped his pen, adjusted his spectacles, and began composing a letter to his son.


End file.
